It has been over a year since BB went under the surgeons knife and still something is not right. Following a osteonomy for Hip Dysplasia (a surgical procedure which includes cutting into and removing bone to fix a deformed hip-joint), twelve weeks in a Hip Spica (half body cast) she still walks with a pronounced limp; imagine John Wayne being shot in the thigh.
She complains regularly of pain, she cannot walk for more than a few minutes at a time and her left leg cannot flex past ninety degrees.
Still we see the legacy of being a toddler with hip dysplasia creep into our daily life.
Phsiotherapy simply didn’t work.
I am tired of this condition, I have the most amazing, beautiful little girl who aspires to jump like her peers, who longs to run without stumbling over, who wants to splash in a muddy puddle without her left leg giving way beneath her without prior warning.
She is my sidekick, in the last few months when we have spent more time together than ever before I find myself repeatedly falling in love with her daily. Together we spend hours standing in the freezing cold feeding swans that are taller than her, swinging and sliding our way through the park, giggling at jokes only we understand.
I find myself carrying her more than I ever carried the twins, we can’t consider going past the driveway without taking the pushchair, she loves to ride on her scooter but she can’t make her leg propel it to gain any speed.
I force myself to remember that others are far worse of than us but still I long to describe her as ‘better’.
A trip to the surgeon last week gave us no answers, an x-ray showed the hip is not dislocated which smoothed our worries a little but the words…
“I have never seen anything like this before”
…merely added to the anxiety that swirls around in the pit of my belly.
We have been referred again.
Next week BB will watch as the familiar nurse rubs cream into her hands to numb the pain of the drip going in. She will cry when a strange man puts a mask on her face to gas her to sleep, I will stand beside her, helpless once more as they wheel my artificially sleeping child away from me.
They want to see what her leg will do under anesthetic, they will put a dye in her hip and take a closer look under X Ray.
We will then get some answers.
A devilish voice lingers at the back of brain, it waits until I am tired, stressed, feeling wrought and it whispers, ‘she will need more spica’.
That ugly old cast haunts my dreams both through the night and it drifts into my day time thoughts.
I calm myself trying to qualm the fear that lingers in the sunlight, but the voice is insistent, I can’t make my own bloody subconscious go away.
I am simply dreading Thursday.